Vivien Fallows - Travels with George: Diary of a Mum on a Mission

Travels with George

The diary of a mum on a mission

Vivien Fallows

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by

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Copyright 2017 Vivien Fallows

The right of Vivien Fallows to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with theCopyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978 1912362 769

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is dedicated to the legions of empty-nesters, whose children have packed their bags and headed off to explore life in far-flung towns, cities or countries.

Now is the time to pack your bags and set out to enjoy your own adventure whether you journey near or far, just do something different, push boundaries, scoop up some memories and have fun

Bon Voyage.

A quick explanation about the people, places and facts mentioned in this book, to ensure that I am not making inadvertent or inappropriate misrepresentations. The named characters exist and only on one occasion have I changed an individuals name, as I did not want to incur the wrath of a Western Australian policeman for a second time.

Although the places I visited are well recognised and well documented some of the facts might seem a little obscure. I have endeavoured to double-check that my original jottings were correct but if errors have been made, then I take full responsibility and will amend as and when identified, on the rather presumptuous assumption that this book might run to a re-print.

I should perhaps point out that my travels took place approximately fourteen years before I finally converted my handwritten scrawl into something more legible. In the intervening years, hotels have been given face-lifts and the smaller museums have embraced the 21st-century technology of their larger cousins, so my occasional disparaging remarks no longer apply. I am also certain that it is possible to do what I did on a more nutritious diet than the beer and muffin fest which fuelled my adventures and expanded my girth.

Finally, and weirdly, I must thank people who may never be aware that I have written about them, which is such a pity as without their conversations this publication would be merely pamphlet sized.

I am not someone normally given to scribbling down lifes events, as keeping a diary requires a discipline I sadly lack. Instead, I airily commit moments to memory where they tumble around, resurfacing unbidden in a day-dream inducing fog. Well, that was the norm until a few years ago when this random approach to memory recall changed out of necessity.

In 2000, buoyed up by the enthusiastic global welcome given to the new millennium, my son Matt decided that a belated gap year would be a good idea. Before I could mumble parental words of pecuniary caution, both he and his girlfriend, Alice, had quit their jobs to set off on an around-the-world trip. As two sets of teary parents bid farewell to their offspring, Alices fatalistic father muttered, They wont be back. Strangely I hadnt considered that option, so my adamant, Yes, they will, probably sounded a little nave.

Six months later the back-packing duo arrived in Sydney where, predictably, they ran out of money and, unpredictably, they found work. Friends were made, a lifestyle enjoyed and then marriage, Australian citizenship, three gorgeous daughters and a mortgage swiftly followed. Alices father was right. Sydney had become home and I miss them with a maternal and grand-maternal ache. To add to my woes, at about the same time that Matt flew off to the unknown his sister, Kate, a primary school teacher, decided to work overseas. Another teary farewell at Heathrow followed. Sadly, the nest had emptied all too swiftly.

And then to compound this strange feeling of loss, in 2002 the disability charity I had been working for ceased to exist. Suddenly, I was minus a job and minus motivation. Trying to shift me out of this lumpen inertia my husband, Kevin, suggested that a trip to Sydney might cheer me up. What a boost! I think possibly he had a three-week visit in mind, but I started chatting to a friendly chap at Trailfinders and my itinerary just got longer and longer. The planning was fun and I ignored friends questions about how many home-cooked frozen meals I was going to leave for my beloved: none as it turned out.

Finally, with preparations over and bag neatly packed, I was gleefully on my way, off on my first solo adventure. In a little under seven weeks I hopped from London to Los Angeles, down to the Cook Islands, further down to North Island, New Zealand before heading across the Tasman Sea to Australia. As adventures go, it wasnt the most intrepid of expeditions for, without giving the game away, there were no Shirley Valentine moments and nothing went wrong.

Eighteen months after my return, with a barely resuscitated piggybank cowering nervously in the corner, I decided upon a further frenzied shake of its rattling innards. The travel bug had bitten deep but further excuses of inertia seemed implausible, so I focussed on the fact that there were still dots on the Australian landscape waiting to be joined up. Once again, aided and abetted by the helpful staff at Trailfinders, my itinerary grew and grew.

On both of these trips, the only obligation I was placed under by my patient husband, was that I should not rely on my jumbled memory to regale him with my antics, but instead write a daily travel journal, which I duly did albeit in a 50 pence lined exercise book.

Oh, and by the way, George was my green wheelie suitcase.

I was on my way

Friday 22nd March : Ready for the off did I wave goodbye at London Heathrow?

There was no last embrace. No entreaty to keep safe from either party. Perhaps I waved? I couldnt be sure. I was too busy inhaling fumes. Glassy-eyed I drew in that wonderful heady cocktail of aircraft fuel. Forget fresh-baked bread, for me its the whiff of kerosene which guarantees a satisfied aah will escape my lips. Excitement bubbled with each breath. Childhood tales of pilots who, with derring-do, re-lived their RAF days bouncing passenger planes safely onto grassy runways, had obviously nurtured this olfactory addiction. Inhaling happily, I hefted my bag and hopefully waved a cheery goodbye to my nearest and dearest. Skipping off, I mused that anything forgotten could be acquired as and when I wasnt exactly heading into a wilderness. A final Dont forget to write drifted across the buzz of airline activity, acknowledged by my barely considered, Yeah byee. I was on my way.